


All American Road Trip

by tisfan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ALL CAPS, America the Beautiful, Can you move your seat up?, Crack Treated Seriously, Feels, Get out the Map, M/M, Multi, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Real Men Don't Ask for Directions, Revenge Karaoke, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Tags May Change, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Long and Winding Road, Tiny Cars and Big People, breakdowns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-11-16 14:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11254641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Captain America has never actually seen America.It's time to fix that.Buckle up your seat belts, get out your car trip-bingo cards, start playing the Alphabet Game, because the man with the plan has mapped out a forty-day road trip across the United States to hit as many monuments and sights as possible. With his right and left- hand men, Bucky and Sam, the three of them head west to see America as it truly is. And maybe, just maybe, find a little of themselves.(That they're avoiding Tony Stark until the New Accords can be ratified is only a bonus.)





	1. Get out the Map

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaliHart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaliHart/gifts), [Mystrana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystrana/gifts), [Quarra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarra/gifts), [antigrav_vector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antigrav_vector/gifts), [RemingtonFae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemingtonFae/gifts), [chicklette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicklette/gifts).



> Thanks to:
> 
> @mystrana @ellebeesknees @cryo-bucky @antigrav_vector @babyboybuckybarnes and @chiyume @needmorefiction @calihart @rennemichaels @quarra @chicklette
> 
> From the RBB slack chat who have encouraged this madness. I love ALL of you!

A year from now we'll all be gone  
All our friends will move away  
And they're going to better places  
But our friends will be gone away  
  
Nothing is as it has been  
And I miss your face like Hell  
And I guess it's just as well  
But I miss your face like Hell

\-- _Rivers and Roads_ , The Head and The Heart

 

“I don’t care, Cap,” Stark said. Steve was always “Cap” now, never Steve, never Sleeping Beauty, never anything else. Just Cap. Steve supposed that was fair, since Stark had been relegated back to Stark, or sometimes Mr. Stark when Steve was feeling particularly belligerent, which was most of the time. “Just… just go. Somewhere. _Anywhere_. Go to Tahiti for all I care. I hear it’s a magical place. It is forty days and forty nights until the official reunion ceremony. And if I have to look at you for another _two hours_ …”

Steve refrained pointing out that Stark didn’t have to look at him, that there was enough space in the compound for everyone, and that Friday kept an eye out enough that if Stark put any effort into it at all, they wouldn’t run into each other randomly in the halls.

Of course, Steve hadn’t been putting in any effort, either. He hadn’t asked about the schedule, never checked to see where Stark was when he entered the kitchen. He couldn’t decide if that was because he wanted things to be back to normal, whatever normal had ever been, or because, like Stark, the wound was still raw and fresh and bleeding, and they were both fucking masochists and kept poking it like damn fools.

Stark was right. They couldn’t work together like this unless there was a world-ending crisis, and Steve would just as much prefer there not be another one of those.

“Right,” he said. Every day, Steve struggled with the same thing. To look Stark in the eyes, or to look away. It didn’t seem like either choice made the situation better, and they’d been snarling at each other worse than feral dogs. “I’ll… take a vacation.”

Stark snorted. “Don’t forget your hat and sunglasses. They make you invisible.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Steve clenched his fists. There was something about Stark that made him want to chase after the man, grab his forearms and shake him until the man saw sense.

_The problem is, you both think you were right._ Natasha had said it best. When Steve protested that he was right, she’d sighed and wrinkled her nose at him. _Sometimes there is no right and no wrong. There’s just a fucked up real life where everyone loses._

_Yeah, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?_

The conversation had gone down hill from there. Like every other conversation Steve had had since the renegade Avengers (as the press was calling them. Steve just thought of them as “the team”) had returned from Wakanda.

The truth of the matter was, Natasha was right. Everything had gone to complete shit. There was the part of Steve that wanted to hit something until it got fixed, and the part of him that blamed Stark. And Ross. And Zemo. And even T’challa.

And a very tiny part of him that he managed to smother from time to time that wondered, quietly, if the house of cards fell because he was stomping around the room.

Steve silenced that voice again.

Vacation…

He’d never actually had one. Before the War, the idea was ludicrous. Vacation was what rich people did. There’d really been no post-war for Steve. He’d gone into the ice, and he’d come back and the world was still at war. They just called it different things now. But the killing hadn’t stopped. The injustice hadn’t stopped. Powerful men decided where and when the poor would die. Built their empires on the backs of slaves that were no longer called slaves. The United States had the highest incarceration rate in the world.

There was always a fight.

Always someplace Steve was needed.

He’d built his life on being needed. Validated by saving lives. The idea that he’d cost people’s lives, that was unbearable. He shoved it aside. Casualties happened in war, and just because it wasn’t the same War didn’t mean it wasn’t war.

_We are not soldiers!_

“We’re all soldiers, Stark,” Steve muttered to the empty air, unwilling to let Stark have the last word. Ever.

Maybe that had always been the problem.

***

I come up hard baby, but now I'm cool  
I didn't make it sugar, playin' by the rules  
I come up hard baby, but now I'm fine  
I'm checkin' trouble sugar, movin' down the line

I come up hard baby, but that's okay  
'Cause trouble man, don't get in my way  
I come up hard baby, I've been for real

Gonna keep movin', gonna go to town  
I come up hard baby, I'm gettin' down  
There's only three things that for sure

Taxes, death and trouble  
\-- _Trouble Man,_ Marvin Gaye

Sam sometimes wished he had extra arms, just so he could face-palm with all of them.

“You wanna do what now?” Sam’s gaze flickered between Steve’s stupid, perfect face, and just over his shoulder, just in case this was some sort of epic candid camera joke and someone was going to jump out and yell surprise.

“I want to go on a road trip,” Steve repeated. He had a copy of Rand McNally rolled up in his hand, tagged with tape flags. “I’ve mapped it all out.”

“Didn’t you get enough bein’ on the road when you were doin’ the bonds circuit?” Sam tried. He really, really did. Because as soon as Steve had knocked on his door with that stupid, hopeful smile, Sam already knew he was going to get roped into whatever stupid shit Captain America had come up with this time.

“I never saw any of it, besides the insides of hotel rooms and auditoriums. Me and a few of the dance girls got out a couple times to sneak a piece of pie or something, but mostly, it was just work. Holding babies that didn’t want to be held and pressing palms and giving speeches that someone else wrote for me,” Steve pointed out. “I’m Captain America and I’ve never really _seen_ America.”

Sam groaned. “Well, now we have to go, reckon .”

“It’ll be fun,” Steve said and frankly, now Sam was staring because he’d never heard Steve say anything about _fun_. This was the man, when asked what he enjoyed, _hadn’t known_. The man who’d had nothing to live for and nothing to look forward to wanted to do a -- fuuuuuuck -- forty day tour of the United States. Two hundred and twenty four hours of driving (nine and a half fucking days) and eight hours a night of sleep and the rest of the time seeing landmarks and climbing mountains and…

On the other hand…

“Just you an’ me?”

Steve’s brow creased. “I don’t want to leave Bucky here alone,” he said. Frankly Sam agreed with that decision. Either Barnes would kill Stark, Stark would kill Barnes, or the two of them would end up having building-smashing amounts of sex. Sam wasn’t sure, in the end, that those three things wouldn’t be the same event.

One of these days, Steve was going to actually listen to the stupid coming out of his mouth and the planet was going to spin right off its axis.

“You want to put a recovering amnesiac/mind control victim in a moving vehicle with nothing to do for hours at a time? Are you _sure_ this is a good plan?” Everyone said Barnes was recovered, or, at least, as recovered as he was going to be. He had a good grip, most of the time, on what was currently happening. He hadn’t had a relapse into Asset behavior in months. But he still wasn’t the guy that Steve had known, he was never going to be that guy again, and Sam just wasn’t sure Steve _knew_ that. He said he knew it, but there was a whole world of difference between head and heart.

Sam knew Riley was dead and gone, had seen it with his own eyes. Which _didn’t_ , from time to time, sneak up behind him and clobber him on the head, because he’d see a thing, hear a joke, and he’d fucking turn to share it… with a man who hadn’t been alive for more than a decade.

Barnes hadn’t been “Bucky” for seventy plus years.

And Steve still kept turning.

Sam took a deep breath and blew it out. He had to go. If nothing else, someone was going to have to run damage control.

For Steve. For Barnes. For the United fucking States.

***

When oblivion  
Is calling out your name  
You always take it further  
Than I ever can

When you play it hard  
And I try to follow you there  
It's not about control  
But I turn back when I see where you go  
  
Are you going to age with grace?  
Are you going to leave a path to trace?  
\-- _Oblivion_ , Bastille

“Bucky Barnes,” he said to the man in the mirror, a face he thought he knew most of the time. He wasn’t startled any more when he saw his reflection. “You were born in 1917. Your best friend is Steve Rogers. It is the year 2017. You are still alive because science is a scary motherfucker.”

State what you know.

That’s what the doctors told him. When he couldn’t remember where he was, or why he was there, start with what you know. Say it out loud, make it real.

“You have blood on your hands. That’s not your fault. But it doesn’t change it.” He was pretty sure the doctors didn’t want him dwelling on that. The courts had found him innocent by reason of insanity for those crimes committed by the Winter Soldier. He’d been twisted and changed and reshaped and reborn. He wasn’t to blame.

They didn’t know, they couldn’t possibly comprehend.

State what you know is true.

“I was James Buchanan Barnes. I was the Winter Soldier. I am Bucky.”

He scrubbed at his face with both hands, feeling the rasp of his beard under his fingers. He liked the beard. He’d never been allowed one before. Not in the Army. Not as the Soldier.

He’d trimmed his hair; it was not quite the same foppish, suave, high-wax, good looking cut he’d had when he was in his twenties. But it was his _choice_ , even if he couldn’t let a professional stylist near his head with scissors. He’d eventually asked the Widow to do it. They knew each other, respected each other’s strength.

She’d cut his hair very close the first time, enough that they both could see the extensive scarring from the surgeries he’d had inflicted on him to install the chip that ran his arm, that controlled his memories. That let him survive cryo. They’d never cut it that short again.

His face was both familiar and unfamiliar. A stranger. The person he was becoming, now that he had a person to become.

Maybe.

“Captain Rogers is here to see you,” the bland, lightly-accented computer voice told him from the ceiling.

He nodded. “Let ‘im in. Thank you.” He liked the computer; it was like living one of those dimestore novels he used to like to read.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice, in the living room. The suite was small, but well laid out. Nicely decorated.

He _hated_ it. Hated living there. Every stick of furniture was a gift from Stark. Even if he’d gone out and chosen it himself, just living at the compound was a… death of a thousand cuts. He owed too much to that man. Every second of every day, he was drowning in reminders. The callous kindness was lemon juice on top of it. Torment by negligent niceness.

“Stevie,” he said, wanting to take Steve’s hand and still not really being sure that was allowed. He was okay in his memories of what had happened recently. He had some of the ones from being the Soldier (more than he wanted, really). It was the war, and before the war where he was unclear what was real and what had been dreams. “Wilson.” Because Wilson was just behind Steve. Steve’s new right hand man.

“We were wondering if you’d… want to join us,” Steve said. Hesitant, like Steve often was. If it wasn’t battle, Steve was floundering.

“For?”

Words were still hard. There was an allotment of them, and he’d used quite a few during the therapy.

“Road trip,” Wilson said. He flashed that little gap-toothed smile, but it was accompanied by the shifting eyes and tilt of his head that indicated that he wasn’t -- precisely -- happy. Wilson was complicated.

“Cross-country touring,” Steve clarified. He pulled out a map and spread it out. A red line was drawn on roads all over the United States.

He glanced at the map; his brain pulled up corresponding missions. “Why?”

“I’ve never seen it,” Steve said. Lying.

“And?”

Steve’s mouth twitched, the lower lip trembled, and his eyes got a little wider.

He sighed. He was helpless against Steve’s pouting, puppy dog face. He always had been. “What’s the other reason.” Not a question; he wasn’t going anywhere without getting the full debrief.

“Stark wants me gone. He’s not wrong. We’re not… we’re not healing, we’re just hurting each other.”

Dark jolt of anger up his spine. Stubborn punk. Arrogant ass. They, neither of them, could let the wound heal because they were both in love with the knife. They both thought the blade belonged in the other person. And until they could see that the knife was the winner, no matter what happened, they weren’t going to be able to let it go.

Steve was right, though. Proximity wasn’t helping.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”  
  
“Road trip,” he clarified. “Okay. I’m in.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this fic, repost to [Tumblr](https://tisfan.tumblr.com/post/162050696829/all-american-road-trip)


	2. A (very) Little Legroom

She weren't much to look at, she weren't much to ride  
She was missing a window on her passenger side  
The floorboard was patched up with paper and tar  
But I really was something in my old yellow car

  
An American boy with his hands on the wheel  
Of a dream that was made of American steel  
Though the seats had the smell of a nickel cigar  
I really was something in my old yellow car

\-- _My Old Yellow Car_ , Dan Seals

Steve decided to take the package in the best possible light. It was either that, or go back on the warpath.

He’d almost tripped over it on his way out of the room, just one of those plain Fed Ex boxes, except he knew for a fact that delivery services weren’t allowed past the front door, so someone had brought it to his door and left it without knocking.

Steve would think that Stark had done it, except that he also couldn’t imagine _Stark_ delivering a package like an errand boy.

Steve tore the slider open and dumped out:

Three Stark Industries ball caps in pale blue  
Three pairs of sunglasses (one pair of mirrored aviators, one tortoise shell horn-rimmed, and one pair of Tom Fords with a double bridge and green lenses: someone had left the price tags on all of them and Steve was not surprised to realize that the three pairs had run almost a grand. Which made crushing them in his hand out of the question)  
One ancient flip phone with a single number in the contacts list

A handwritten note:

_You’ve always had a Stark backing your play. Call if you need anything. -T_

He tucked the phone into his suitcase. He’d packed enough clothes for a week and planned stops to do laundry. Basic toiletries. Sketchbooks and a pack of charcoal pencils.  

The door behind him opened and Bucky slumped into the room. He was wearing several layers; since coming out of cryo in Wakanda, Bucky had always seemed to be cold. He wore tee shirts and henleys in layers, topped out with a sweatshirt or hoodie. And always gloves; he hated people staring at his metal arm. And they always stared. It was hard not to.

Steve often wondered what the fuck Hydra was thinking when they put a shiny metal arm that whirred and whined when it moved on _an assassin_. It was the first damn thing Steve had noticed about the Winter Soldier when they had their rooftop chase. _He’s strong, he’s fast. He has a metal arm._

Bucky had a backpack slung over one shoulder; not the one Steve had seen before, that had gotten confiscated back during that whole fiasco before Zemo triggered the Winter Soldier. After quite a lot of fighting and legal finagling, Bucky’d gotten his notebooks back, but the backpack itself was gone. This was a new one. There didn’t seem to be very much in it.  

“You got another suitcase, Buck?” Steve asked.

Bucky shook his head, wasting no motion; left, right, back to center. “Card,” he said, shortly. He flipped through a simple leather billfold and held up a silver credit card, pinched between two fingers.

“What is that?”

“Hydra safe monies,” Bucky said. Seemed to recognize that it wasn’t enough information. “For Assets on extended missions. Tied to independent bank accounts in neutral countries. Untraceable. No one left alive to look for the money.”

Steve bit the inside of his cheek. Bucky had been supposed to have turned over all Hydra information, as part of the agreement to let him back into the country, to reinstate him as a United States citizen, to have him listed as the country's most long-surviving prisoner of war. Stark… probably would want to know about this.

Steve wasn’t going to tell him.

“So, what’s the plan?”

“Buy new clothes when I need ‘em,” Bucky said. “Less to pack. Less to lose if we have to run. Possession slow you down.”

Steve didn’t shake his head, but he wanted to. “You’re not an Asset any more,” he said.

Bucky didn’t quite shrug, but he made a quick head tilt that said _we’ll see about that_.

“So what’s in the bag?”

“Energy bars. Notebook. Guns.”

“Buck, we don’t--”

“Rather have ‘em and not need ‘em than bring a knife to gunplay, Stevie,” Bucky said. He reached for the ballcaps on Steve’s table, his fingers stopping as they hovered. “These for us?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. He couldn’t help the quick grin, because Bucky pulled the blue cap on right away and slid the round sunglasses over his eyes. Between that and the beard, he didn’t much look like the pictures of the Winter Soldier that had been all over the newspapers last year. Maybe Stark wasn’t being one hundred percent a dick. Just… ninety percent. With a dash of sarcasm.

“Come on, then, let’s go get Sam and get started.”

***

And I was standin' on the side of the road  
Rain fallin' on my shoes  
Heading out for the east coast  
Lord knows I've paid some dues  
Gettin' through  
Tangled up in blue  
\-- _Tangled up in Blue_ , Bob Dylan

“You have got to be kidding,” Sam said. He was going to break his skull before this trip was over.

“What? I could afford it and I can drive it,” Steve said.

Sam opened his mouth and nothing came out but a strangled squawk. He closed his eyes, opened them. Nope, still there. “It’s an Opel _Kadett_.” _Seriously, seriously, Steve, did you just not think this through at all?_ “You just don’t learn, do you? And that color, that is--”

“We won’t lose it in a parking lot.” Steve walked around the back of the bright, lime green car and popped the trunk. “You coming, or not?”

“You couldn’t have at least gotten a four door?” Sam started to throw his bag in the back, then stopped, staring --”Is that a tent? Are you seriously planning on camping on this trip?”

Steve shrugged. “Just in case we can’t get a hotel. Or you know, we want to stargaze.”

“You--” Sam pointed a finger at Barnes. “Get in the back.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t stop his crazy ass from buying a car from the freaking seventies. You gotta improve, man. Can’t just be Cap’s bitch for the rest of your life.”

Barnes scowled, but pushed the passenger seat forward and climbed into the back. Sam slid into the passenger seat. He could already feel Barnes’ knees digging into the back of the seat. Yeah, this was goan be so much fun.

“Here, you get to be navigator,” Steve said. He dumped a handful of maps and booklets in Sam’s lap. “I traced out a basic route and tagged a few places of interest to get us started.”

“I have a GPS, man,” Sam protested, juggling the papers that Steve had shoved at him.

“No GPS,” Steve said.

“What is it with you, grampa,” Sam exclaimed.

Steve took a deep breath, shoved the key in the ignition and brought the car to life with a decidedly unimpressive rumble. “I don’t--”

“He thinks Stark is tracing our phones,” Barnes piped up from the back.

“Wouldn’t put it past him, at any rate,” Steve muttered, shoving his hand through his hair. The man was so stupidly tall in the driver’s seat that the tips of his hair were brushing the ceiling. He had the seat slid way back to make room for his ridiculously long legs.

“So what’s your great plan for dealing with that? You know it just pings off the cellphone towers, right?” Sam asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He was going on a road trip and he wasn’t even going to get to play Angry Birds? How was that even fair?

“When we stop tonight, I’ll put our phones in a priority mail box and send them back to ourselves. We can get them when we come back.”

“Dude, you are paranoid,” Sam accused.

“Not paranoid enough,” Barnes said. “This car is gonna be easy to spot. I’ll sweep it after we settle, but the fuckin’ traffic cams’ll have us at least until flyover states.”

“Okay, so Steve’s the amatuer tin-foil hat wearing freak here, and you’re the conspiracy theory expert. What’s that make me?” He was not playing therapist to two supersoldiers with delusions of adequacy, really, he was not. Sam’s mom didn’t raise no fools, and the worst foot to get off on would be to let them start dismissing his opinions. Not that they were wrong; it was the sort of thing Stark would do.

Stark was ten times more paranoid than Barnes and he had good reason to be. Rate of exchange on successful trust extended experiments for the man had discouraging results. Sam would have felt more sorry for the guy if his keeping information close to the vest hadn’t cost them all so very much. It wasn’t even really the guy’s fault; Stark just assumed that the people around him were either bright enough to figure it out on their own, or stupid enough to not need to know. Sam wasn’t sure how Stark had figured him.

Still, Stark was probably tracking them. Just because Ross was out of the picture didn’t mean there weren’t other government agencies who wanted to keep a discreet eye on Cap and his buddy. (Sam was often forgotten, a circumstance that would have annoyed him more if he hadn’t been eager to fly under the radar.)

Not to mention, if something dire happened, Stark would want to be able to pick them up for immediate deployment. _Forty days_ , Sam directed a prayer up to his main man, Jesus Christ. _As long as you were in the Desert; let the Avengers be unnecessary, just for that long, okay man?_

Barnes nudged the back of Sam’s seat. “Turn the radio on,” he said.

Sam twisted the dial -- Christ, this thing didn’t even have a plug in for an MP3 player, he was going to have to manually tune -- and the first station that came on was Friday’s custom mix that broadcast in a limited range around the compound.

 _Highway to Hell_ by AC/DC pumped through the speakers, which were surprisingly good. Sam closed his eyes, felt the music coming at him from all directions.

“We aren’t starting our trip on this Tony Stark theme music shit.”  Steve punched one of the silver radio buttons, changing over to a squelch of static. From there, he twisted the knob until he settled on a local R&B station.

***

And I find it kinda funny  
I find it kinda sad  
The dreams in which I'm dying  
Are the best I've ever had  
I find it hard to tell you  
I find it hard to take  
When people run in circles  
It's a very, very mad world, mad world  
\-- _Mad World_ , Gary Jules

Took less than twelve minutes to do a complete analysis of the structural capacity of Steve’s chosen vehicle, its performance ratios, and come to the conclusion that they were likely to have their first breakdown within three thousand miles. Based on Steve’s map, they’d probably achieve total failure within eight thousand miles.

Didn’t matter. He patted his pocket. Hydra had plenty of money. He’d made the suggestion of a newer, more reliable vehicle after Steve had come to the emotionally crushing conclusion that he was not very good at planning.

He also wasn’t very good at driving. Who the fuck ever gave that man a driver’s license?

Steve’s driving was almost as terrifying as facing down an entire squad of SHIELD agents. Which made him want to kick something. He settled for tapping the fingers of his left hand against the door handle. _Click. Click click click. Click. Click click click click._

_Click. Click. clickclickclick._

That was amusing. He watched as Wilson’s shoulders got tighter with each drumming roll of metal fingers against the cheap plastic door handle.

Right before Wilson was ready to turn around and yell, he stopped tapping for a while. Five minutes. Eight and a half.

_Click. Click. clickclickclickclick._

The backseat was claustrophobic. He’d had cryo-tubes that were more spacious. Okay, that was exaggerating. But at least the cryo-tubes had been designed to fit his body appropriately. He wasn’t smashed into a tiny bench seat with an uncomfortable bump in the middle, legs spread wide to have one leg in each footwell in order to not bruise his knees with the backs of the seats in front of him.

The center seat belt didn’t fit around his midsection and the other two cramped him into one side of the bench or the other. He wasn’t wearing one. Safety be damned. He’d like to have two functioning legs at the end of the day.

He computed his trajectory, if Steve had to slam on the brakes suddenly. He could probably catch the steering wheel on his way by, but it wasn’t likely to slow his ejection from the vehicle and it would leave Steve the difficulty of not being able to control the car. Which probably wouldn’t hurt Steve all that much, but Steve might be upset if something happened permanent-like to Wilson.

_Click._

The prime solution was to let Wilson drive; his legs were shorter and even though he was completely pushed back as far as he could while riding shotgun, he’d have to scoot forward to drive.

Which would allow him to sit behind the driver’s side and use the damn seat belt.

_Click. click._

He dug around in the bag behind Steve’s seat. Food and a couple cans of soda. That wasn’t going to hold for long. Also, did Steve not know that people had invented insulated coolers in the meanwhile? Warm Coke. Yuck.

Didn’t matter. He was hungry. He ripped the top off a packet of trail mix; dried fruits, nuts, rolled oats, chocolate. It was terrible, but high in calories for the double handful he poured into his mouth. Based on his calculations, he and Steve would go through this batch of nutrients before the vehicle had even gone through three quarters of its petrol.

_Man with a plan, my muscular buttocks._

One might have supposed Steve would keep track of his own caloric needs. Then again, Steve never did think things through. He never had, scrappy little punk. All he’d started with in his life was two fists and a pile of anger. He’d channeled into righteous rage, but the rest of it? His health, his well being, where his next meal was coming from. That had been all Bucky Barnes and Howard Stark.

Idiot.

 _Click. Click click click._  
  
“Would you knock that off?” Wilson finally gave up, twisted in his seat to glare.

“Mmm.” He grunted. Not an answer. The tiniest of smiles twitched up the side of his mouth.

Eighty seconds later, he started bouncing his leg, vibrating his knee against Wilson’s seat.

 


	3. (You're Gonna) Sing the Words Wrong

I told a girl that my prospects were good  
And she said baby, it's understood  
Working for peanuts is all very fine  
But I can show you a better time  
Baby you can drive my car  
Yes I'm gonna be a star  
Baby you can drive my car  
And maybe I'll love you

\-- _Drive My Car_ , The Beatles

There were a lot of things that Steve Rogers had missed about his best friend, Bucky Barnes, when Bucky had been lost to a combat mission. Had fallen from the train and in that one instance had taken everything -- everything -- in Steve’s life that had been good and constant and true.

He’d missed Bucky’s wit; the man was far too clever for his own good. Which had been a real morale boost during the war. Even when Bucky was suffering (and Steve had known that he was, but hadn’t known how to help, and Bucky had been so desperately trying to pretend that everything was _normal_ , so Steve had just… let him) he was able to make quips and jokes and kept the men entertained.

Steve had missed Bucky’s steadfastness; there’d been something unbreakable between them. Neither of them would ever, _could_ ever, leave the other behind. Steve knew, always, Bucky had his back. Which was good, because quite frankly, Steve had needed that when he was younger and smaller and couldn’t seem to shut the fuck up. His need to prove himself had gotten him into more trouble than it had ever gotten anyone else out of. And Bucky had kept him alive, almost despite himself. (There were times when Steve had legitimately wondered if he’d been suicidal the whole time; wanting some back-alley thug to take him out, rather than choking on his own blood in a bed somewhere.)

He had not, however, missed Bucky’s _singing_.

Dear fucking Christ on a pogo stick.

Sam had found some music -- Steve was never going to reconcile modern artists to being _musicians_ \-- and the start of his gap-toothed smile had crept out as he hummed along. Sam had a nice voice, soothing, sort of like molasses-dark and a little burr in the way he dropped certain words that made Steve feel warm and happy.

And then Bucky started singing from the back seat.

The way he was sitting put Bucky’s face -- and therefore his mouth -- right next to Steve’s ear, which was completely unnecessary, since Steve could hear him perfectly well. Could have heard him pretty well if he’d been in the car behind them. In fact, that might have been preferable.

And the way he was sprawled in the backseat -- Natasha had once called it man-spreading -- and Steve had to admit when he twisted around to look, Bucky was taking up way more space than he needed to. Steve had _seen_ the man’s bits and balls before, and he was pretty sure that even pumped full of Hydra’s knock-off version of the serum, Bucky didn’t quite need enough room between his thighs for an entire women’s volleyball team. It was distracting as hell once Steve noticed it, because then he kept wanting to look back there. That vee between Bucky’s thighs, the way the denim pulled over his legs and clung to his muscles, was a bitter temptation.

That was something else Steve had missed about Bucky, still missed about Bucky, since Bucky hadn’t yet made any sort of indications that their physical/romantic relationship was something Bucky wanted to pick back up where they’d left it off. Not that Steve blamed him; God only knew what sort of trauma Bucky had endured. Steve wasn’t going to be the one to start it. When Bucky was ready, he’d let Steve know. And if he never was? Well, Steve’s hand worked perfectly well.

Which did not, apparently, mean he was immune to Buck’s physical charms. Didn’t mean his eyes weren’t constantly wandering over the man’s body, storing up images and impressions to use at a later time.

Except for right now.

Because Bucky was singing, and how the fuck did he even know the words to this song?

“Seriously,” Steve said, finally, after the fifth or sixth song in a row that Bucky had known, word (if not note) perfect, “this is what you remember? How do you only know half of your life and yet you can sing Miley Cyrus?”

Buck shrugged one massive shoulder. “Don’t know. Just know.”

Steve didn’t want to say anything. He’d adjusted the rearview mirror a few times trying to see around Bucky’s head and failed miserably, but maybe that was okay, because he could check traffic behind them in the sides and watching Bucky’s face while he was singing was almost worth the terrible noises coming out of his throat. Bucky was singing. And he looked… happy.

And that was enough for Steve.

Except that after a while Steve was starting to look forward to commercials. Anything. Because dear sweet Mary, Bucky’s voice was terrible. And _loud_.

Bucky’s happiness, however, did not seem to be enough for Sam.

***

Just a small town girl  
Livin' in a lonely world  
She took the midnight train goin' anywhere  
Just a city boy  
Born and raised in south Detroit  
He took the midnight train goin' anywhere  
  
A singer in a smoky room  
A smell of wine and cheap perfume  
For a smile they can share the night  
It goes on and on, and on, and on  
\-- _Don't Stop Believin'_ , Journey

Sam punched the silver button, cutting Barnes off mid-note. For just a moment, the abused and tortured syllable lingered in the empty air while Sam scrolled through the available FM stations, trying to find something else.

He paused on a country station -- not that country music these days was anything other than pretty boys and girls with carefully cultivated hick images that sang songs specifically to pander to a middle-aged white audience and was therefore one of Sam’s most hated sorts of music on the planet -- but as soon as Barnes caught the rhythm, he was right back to singing. And if there was something that Sam wasn’t going to tolerate, it was the fucking Winter Soldier telling him that his tractor was sexy.

Just no.

Sam kept scrolling through the dial. Rap. Two beats and Barnes was rapping along, which was almost tolerable. Sam was pained by the theory of a white man rappin’, but it was somewhat better than the singing, in that Barnes’s I-just-had-the-most-amazing-sex-ever voice was better suited to rap than to any actual melody (Sam would have killed for an in-car karaoke set that had auto-tuner) but there was still back up singing, and Barnes’s voice wandered in and out of the proper range.

Sam couldn’t take much of that, either. Bad enough listening to Barnes butcher music, it was worse when it was music that Sam _liked_. Which meant he skipped right over the Motown station that Sam was familiar with from mid-state. Because just. No and some more no.

He stopped briefly on a hispanic station, the immediately identifiable sounds of a mariachi band coming out of the speakers. Surely, at least this would be something Barnes was unfamiliar with.

No such luck.

“How th’ hell do you even know Spanish?” Sam demanded, turning all the way around in his seat and the belt cutting into his neck.

“Forty million people in the United States alone speak Spanish,” Barnes said, “and four hundred _million_ worldwide.” He paused, tongue flicking out to wet his top tip. “A sixth of the world’s population speaks Chinese, mostly Mandarin. The pervasive, slow power of American culture has not yet nudged English past third place as the most commonly spoken language, half a billion world-wide, most of them as a second language.”

“Well, that’s some good old-fashioned propaganda comin’ out of your mouth, Barnes,” Sam said, eyebrow quirking.

Barnes actually smirked. “You think American culture ain’t propaganda, I got bad news for you, pal.”

Sam sighed and fiddled the knob again, finally coming across a classical station with no words, which was boring, but at least easier on his ears.

Right up until Barnes started humming.

Seriously. How the fuck was he even doing that?

“What’s the next turn?” Steve asked. The way his hands were on the wheel, ten and two, you’d think the man was a proper driver. He wasn’t. He tail-gated and passed with inches to spare, and generally acted like the other drivers were combat enemies rather than people doing their daily commutes.

“We close enough now, there should be road signs,” Sam sighed. He hated looking at maps. Even if Steve had let him draw all over them with highlighters. He traced their route… gave the next turn.

“After this, we eat,” Barnes piped up. “I ain’t carin’ about any dead author’s house, Stevie, but if you don’t feed me soon, I will kill an’ eat the weakest member of our party.”

Sam did not look around to see if Barnes was staring at him, because if he was, then Sam was just going to have to punch him, and supersoldiers were notoriously hard-headed.

Also, Sam wasn’t entirely sure that Cap would back his play, this time.

“There’s snacks in the footwell,” Steve said.

“Not anymore, there ain’t,” Barnes said.

“What?”

“I ate ‘em all,” Barnes reported. “What of ‘em you didn’t eat. In case you hadn’t noticed, been handin’ em to you for the last fifty miles at least.”

Steve took his eyes off the road for a heart-stopping moment to verify that, yes, there were snack bar wrappers scattered all over the front seat’s foot wells. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

Sam did turn to catch that expression. Barnes was angry, exasperated, but under that, a touch scared. There was fear in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes darted around the tiny car. Knowing he was trapped in the back seat, that getting out past Steve would be an effort.

“Dude’s hungry,” Sam said, leaning back in his seat. “Best feed ‘im or it’s goan be your Irish ass on the line.”

“All right,” Steve said, his fingers tightening on the wheel for just a second, long enough for the cheap plastic to creak before he eased up. “Let’s catch this museum, and then we’ll have some lunch?”

Sam let Steve get ahead before getting out of his seat and pulling it forward so Barnes could clamber out of the back. The man’s spine looked painfully twisted already and he stretched mightily, showing off a brief flash of skin as his shirts pulled free.

Sam spoke quietly, both hoping that Cap would hear him and hoping that Cap wouldn’t. There was this destroyed look on Steve’s face every time he was reminded of what Barnes had been through. “You know, we ain’t your handlers. If you’re hungry, say so. You’re allowed to eat. Or sleep. Or take a piss.”

“Seventy year’s habit, hard to break,” he said, patting Sam’s arm hard enough to knock him two steps sideways. “If you’re feelin’ so sorry f’r the poor little Winter Soldier, y’could let me ride shotgun a while.”

“Hey, fuck you, man,” Sam said.

Barnes flashed him a barely there grin. “Buy a book, while we’re in’ere, okay? I’ll read it. Better’n singing.”

“Anything’s better than your singing, man,” Sam said and that wasn’t nothing but the truth. So help him Jesus.

“An’ I get shotgun.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine. Fine.”

***

Well, me and Mark Twain were having us a ball  
Telling each other lies, floating down from Hannibal  
With a bottle and a worm and a cane pole  
We were fishing for secrets where the catfish crawl  
And the Mississippi River's flowing downstream  
Meet the Gulf of Mexico somewhere downstream  
Meet the Atlantic Ocean somewhere downstream  
Gonna meet you in the water somewhere downstream  
Well, we picked up Harry Truman floating down from Independence  
We said "What about the war?", he said "Good riddance"  
We said "What about the Bomb, are you sorry that you did it?"  
He said "Pass me that bottle, and mind your own business"  
\-- _Downstream_ , The Rainmakers

He wasn’t sure why Steve insisted on the stops; visiting the homes of famous people long dead had been barely interesting even before they were both older than the person in question. Now that he had lived -- sporadically it was true -- through a century, he found himself utterly uninterested in history.

Fashions had changed again. He’d been trained to blend in, so his eye was drawn to the differences in clothing between the older tourists and the younger ones. Brightly dyed and oddly cut hair was back in style; he hadn’t missed that when the eighties had passed, but at least this time he was old enough to not be expected to blend into a punk scene.

The tour attendant had noticed Steve. Of course she had, it was impossible not to notice Steve; the man was blinding in his grace and beauty. He shone so bright it was hard to look away; everything was dingy and smaller after he’d walked into the room. Using the distraction to slip away, avoiding the useless and somewhat tidied up historical information, he’d found his way to an employee break room.

No one was about, so he took the opportunity to raid the fridge. Someone’s turkey sandwich went missing, along with two bags of chips, a soda, and a bottle of exceptionally sweet tea. Yuck. Oh, look, cake. Only a day or two old. Not that he’d really care about that, he’d been known to eat food from bins on really bad days. This time, at least, he had a few twenties in his pocket; he left two in the employee fridge. Hopefully it would do.

Steve hadn’t even noticed the few moments that he was missing; that was good to know. If he decided that he needed to leave, he might get a few minutes lead before Steve was tearing the world apart looking for him again.

“Where’d you vanish off to, Barnes?”

Well, maybe not. Wilson had eyes; probably not so keen as his namesake, but good enough. Sneaking away and around on him was going to be like dodging the Black Widow. Possible, but he’d have to chose his moment carefully.

_Why are you still planning to leave?_

He pushed that aside. The habit of more than half a life’s span was hard to break. He always, always had an exit plan. He hadn’t stayed alive as long as he had by getting soft and complacent.

“There was cake in the breakroom,” he reported. “Still is.”

“Man, I ain’t eatin’ someone else’s cake,” Wilson said, eyes rolling up. “You--”

“Michael Phelps.”

“What now?”

“Olympic swimmer--”

“I know who Michael Phelps is, man,” Wilson interrupted. “What’s he got to do with you stealin’ someone’s cake.”

“For performance quality health, Phelps consumes twelve thousand calories per diem,” he continued. “Similar to functionality as an enhanced individual.”

“You eat twelve--”

“Steve is more efficient,” he said, shrugging. “Twelve is enough for him. My required intake on mission is more like eighteen.”

“Dude, you’re goan starve to death on this trip if Cap doesn’t up his game,” Wilson opined.

He shrugged. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t on mission, so his needs were less. And it’s not like they were road tripping in Siberia, where food was hard to find. The amount of high-intake food in American cities was obscene.

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t think I’d need to tell you this,” he said, “but you are Cap’s whole life. Suffering in silence isn’t goan cut it with him. You saw what that man did to protect you; don’t you be makin’ it all for nothing.”

“Didn’t know you cared,” he managed to say around the lump in his throat. Of course he knew Steve had given up so much to protect him. Even when he didn’t deserve it. Annoying as it was, because he’d been doing fine without Steve around; things had actually been easier when Steve wasn’t around. Steve had a way of making everything louder. More urgent.

“Man, I don’t,” Wilson said. “I care about Cap, let’s get that straight. I near to made myself an exile for life to give him a chance of having you back again. That’s the smallest item on the tally of what you owe that man, so don’t you forget it.”

He scowled. “I didn’t ask him to.”

“Since when did that ever matter?”

_Fuck._


	4. You Make Me Live

Ooh you're the best friend that I ever had  
I've been with you such a long time  
You're my sunshine and I want you to know  
That my feelings are true  
I really love you  
Oh you're my best friend  
Ooh you make me live  
\-- _You’re My Best Friend_ , Queen 

As appalling as it was to depend on Tony Stark -- sometimes it seemed to Steve that he’d spent all his post-transformative time being financially dependant on, and therefore in some obscure manner, owned by, the Stark family, and believe you me, Steve resented it -- Steve was glad enough for the shiny credit cards that Stark Industries provided.

Steve had gotten used to either snacking regularly around the Tower or just ignoring his hunger. It wasn’t like he hadn’t spent most of his growing-up years in some constant state of not having enough to eat. (the only time in his childhood he hadn’t been hungry was because he was too sick to notice)

But when Sam had pointed out that Bucky was hungry, that was an entirely different story.

And Bucky had been sharing the snacks with Steve. Which almost made it worse; that somehow, over thirty years and nine decades and however many hours there were, Bucky was still fucking looking after Steve, like Steve was a sweet, but ultimately stupid dog that couldn’t look after itself.

The more galling part of that was that it might possibly have been true.

They’d entered the all-you-could-eat diner and Steve hadn’t hesitated. “Seven, please,” he’d told the hostess, who looked at the three of them with wide, wondering eyes. “Believe me, you’ll want to charge us that way.”

Bucky ate like a man used to starving, quietly, efficiently. He didn’t talk. He chased every few bites with a dinner roll, using the spongy surface to clear every drop of gravy and grease from the plate.

He didn’t waste a calorie, either. While high in calories and fat, what Bucky chose from the various stations around the diner were balanced. High nutrient fruits -- strawberries, bananas, melon slices, more strawberries -- and vegetables. Lots of protein. Bucky was thoroughly practical; right up until he discovered _chocolate milk_.

Steve wasn’t sure if Bucky had been eating right for months; two years on the run after Insight Day and he still didn’t talk about that. But he certainly wasn’t eating for flavor. At the Tower, at the Wakanda compound, Bucky ate what was put in front of him. He never commented on the flavor or gave any indication that he preferred a thing. Even Steve, who tended to eat peanut butter out a jar with a spoon, had some favorites.

Bucky had been drinking regular milk up until that point; an older woman (by the calendar still probably younger than Bucky, but only by ten years or so) was fiddling with the heavy lift to pour just a little milk into her cup of tea. Bucky started a conversation with her, low and soft and polite, and she probably had something wrong with her eyesight, because the woman didn’t look at him and jump backward -- a reaction that many people seemed to have. He leaned against the machine, put his cup under the other tap, and showed her how it worked, filling his own glass with chocolate milk. She managed to get a few drips into her tea cup. Bucky smiled at her, gave a little bow, just tilting his upper body in her direction. Smiled at something she said.

Came back to the table.

Frowned at the cup of brown milk, then shrugged and took a sip.

Drained the glass so quickly Steve thought he was pouring it down his throat.

“Your boy’s got a sweet tooth,” Sam commented as Bucky got back up to refill his glass.

Steve gave Sam a sharp look. “He’s not my boy,” Steve said.

There weren’t words for the dubious expression that crossed Sam’s face. “I ain’t judging, man,” he said. “But that is your boy, don’t have any doubts on that.”

“Maybe once,” Steve said. He couldn’t help the way his stomach twisted, his hands clenched, or he had to swallow down the knot in his throat. Back when he and Bucky were sneaking around to find a quiet spot, loving each other in silence, you did not talk about it. Not unless you were a hundred and ten percent certain the other person was also temperamental. And even then, you were still risking it. Some men had been known to turn in their fellows, in order to divert suspicion. Steve knew it was different now, knew that. But he still had an old, instinctive reaction. His nerves were telling him shut up, shut up, shut up. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. “He’s my best friend.”

“He’s your best something, is what he is,” Sam said. “Man broke through seventy years of conditioning, for you. You best treat him right.”

Steve scowled.

“I ain’t sayin’ you’re treating him badly,” Sam said, spreading his hands. He twitched his head in the direction of Bucky, who was on his third refill of chocolate milk, being almost unable to stop sampling long enough to return to the table. “I’m saying _pay attention_ , man.”

Steve watched as Bucky finally came back to the table, the way his legs moved, the sway of his hips, the powerful arms, the thousand-yard stare.

“Believe me, I’m paying attention,” Steve said. He almost wished he could ignore Bucky, just a little bit. It might have been better for his peace of mind.

***

And I'm a tail fin road locomotive  
From the days of cheap gasoline  
For sale on the side of the road goin' nowhere  
A rusty old American dream  
This car needs a young man to own him  
One who will polish the chrome  
I'll give you the rest of my lifetime  
Just don't let me die here alone  
\-- _Rusty Old American Dream_ , Pat Green 

All jokes aside, the backseat was tiny. Sam didn’t blame Barnes for spreading out, or for the very minimal bitching the man had managed to work himself up to doing. In fact, Sam might have thought the bitching was doing Barnes some good. He doubted Hydra let the man complain.

But Sam had a sister and a cousin who lived with them more often than not, and grandparents that lived four states away. He wouldn’t say he was _happy_ with long car rides, but he knew how to handle them. He climbed into the back seat, the new bags of snacks tucked in the driver’s side footwell, cranked the passenger side window down, and laid over on the back seat, legs bent and the heels of his sneakers resting against the sill.

“Seriously, Sam?” Steve eyed him from the driver’s seat, using the mirror expressively.

Sam flicked him the bird. “Shut up, man, I’m comfy.” He wasn’t, really, entirely. It’d been several years since the last time he was smashed in the back seat, but he’d also been in the Air Force, sleeping in uncomfortable spots was one of his talents.

“If I wreck, you’re gonna get your legs cut off at the knee,” Steve pointed out.

“So don’t wreck, Captain Safe Driver,” Sam retorted. “Now, hush your mouth and let your boy read.”

Barnes coughed uncertainly. “I can read while you talk,” he said.

“Nah, man, read to us,” Sam suggested. “Ain’t that what people used to do, back in your day, for entertainment.”

“Believe it or not, Sam, we actually had moving pictures back in our day,” Steve said. Sam couldn’t see his expression, but his voice sounded like he was scowling.

“Black and white,” Barnes said. “Silent, with title placards. Remember sneakin’ in a few times. But yeah, I… used to read to you a lot, remember, Stevie? When you were sick, I’d sit next t’you and read, just tons. Used to walk ‘n the gutters sometimes, look for pennies, save ‘em up to get a dime novel at the drugstore.”

“I remember you reading Ellery Queen,” Steve said, his voice soft. “ _The Greek Coffin_.”

“Yeah, y’ little sneak,” Barnes said, laughter in his voice. “You waited ‘til I fell asleep and snuck a peek at the challenge page.”

“You wouldn’t have caught me, if you hadn’t done the exact same thing,” Steve pointed out.

“True,” Barnes admitted.

“Shame on you, Rogers. Reading ahead spoils the fun. I burned myself on that habit,” Sam piped up. “When I was twelve, I was reading George Orwell’s _1984_ and I read the last page after about 10 pages in.” He waited, that usually got groans and appreciative noises from his audience, but neither of them made a sound. Oh. Oh, god. “Y’all’ve never read _1984_ , have you?”

“Nope,” Barnes said, popping the P with a certain amount of gusto. “I haven’t actually read a book since 1943.”

“What was the last book you read?” Sam asked, curious.

“Um,” Barnes said, scratching at the scruff on his chin. “Not sure, maybe _Happy Golden Years_?”

“Wasn’t it that book your sister sent you?” Steve asked. “Along with some cookies that were mostly stale crumbs by the time we got the box.”

“Yeah, I think,” Barnes said. “That Laura Wilder woman. I used to read that to her, while they were shiny-new. The boy at the pharmacy had a crush on my sister --” he directed that comment at Sam, because surely this was something that Steve knew “-- and he had given them to her.” He stopped, took a deep breath. “When… last year. I looked her up. She married that man. I have a grand-niece, and two great-grand-nephews, through them.”

“Have you made contact with them?”

Sam didn’t have to see Barnes’ face to imagine the flat look he was giving Steve. “Can’t think why they’d want me to.”

“C’mon, Buck,” Steve said, “you were a hero. What --”

“Stark ain’t the only person who might be keepin’ tabs on me,” Barnes said. “You think I wanna lead any stray Hydra t’ the only blood kin I got left? No, Stevie. Ain’t worth it for me, and they’re better off jus’ not knowing.”

Couldn’t say the man wasn’t smart, even if he had read _Little House on the Prairie_. Sam took his foot off the windowsill long enough to kick the back of Barnes’ seat. “Read, boy,” Sam said.

Barnes rumbled in his throat, then fished around in the bag to pull out a hardback novel. He flipped a few pages, drew his finger down the page, and started to read.

_It was in Warwick Castle that I came across the curious stranger whom I am going to talk about.  He attracted me by three things: his candid simplicity, his marvelous familiarity with ancient armor, and the restfulness of his company—for he did all the talking._

There was something ironic about listening to a man out of time… reading about a man out of time, but Sam didn’t point it out. He lay back down in the back seat and listened to the man weave the story.

He might not have been able to sing worth shit, but Barnes could _read_. He was expressive, he did different voices for each of the characters, and he kept turning pages for as long as there was light in the car.

Sam reminded himself to buy more books. A lot more books.

***

I ain't got much else to lose  
I'm faded flat busted  
Been jaded I been dusted  
I know that I've seen better days  
One foot in the hole  
One foot gettin' deeper crank it to eleven  
And blow another speaker  
And I ain't got, I ain't got much to lose  
\-- _Better Days (And The Bottom Drops Out)_ , Citizen King

“Don’t know who the fuck thought you deserved a goddamn driver’s license,” he snarled, unkinking himself from the front seat. Shotgun or not, Steve’s driving was terrible no matter what the road conditions were. Steve tailgated, he cut people off, he drove like he was in a fucking warzone and people were throwing grenades.

His muscles ached from bracing himself against the door handle. A few times, he’d heard the plastic strain, just an inch from ripping the whole thing off in some vain attempt to keep himself from being smashed to tiny bits when Steve drove the tiny, stupid, unarmored car into a semi tractor-trailer.

He knew, mind you, that tensing up was the worst thing he could do before impact. He’s learned over decades of training and conditioning to _go limp_ for a crash. To roll with the force, eat it up in tumbles and rolls. That loose muscles were unlikely to strain so hard as to snap bones.

He could project trajectories, do the equations in seconds, calculate the turning of the planet, the wind resistance, to see the physics and algebra under the surface of the world, the threads and numbers and variables that moved the world. He could time a jump to the millisecond, he could calculate the paths that would help him catch his prey.

And he still couldn’t help but see every accident that Steve almost had.

He’d been watching that stupid punk nearly commit suicide by idiocy every day of his life from age nine to twenty-seven.

Steve’s reactions were as good as his own. He wasn’t trained with the specifics of mayhem that the Winter Soldier had been; Steve was just naturally good at wreaking havok.

“This hotel better have a pool, yo,” Wilson said. He was stretching luxuriously, as if he hadn’t spent the last half day asleep in the backseat. “An’ a poolside bar would not be a tragedy.”

“You are too used to living in the compound,” Steve snapped. Steve looked tired. How could that even be right? Steve had as much stamina as the Winter Soldiers. He’d certainly fought like he couldn’t be exhausted.

“You’re damn straight,” Sam said. “Defending the world needed to have its perks.”

“Is that what we’ve done, Sam?” Steve said.

Oh. _Oh_.

Steve wasn’t tired, not the way most people would mean it. Steve was exhausted. From carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. From the realization that what he’d done wasn’t saving the world.

“We got played,” he said. It was nothing but the truth. Zemo had played them; had sought out all their weaknesses and used them against the other. Mistrust, lies, emotions had run high. Steve, who’d been badly compromised in his concern for his friend. The Winter Soldier, who’d lived so long as a tool that he had no idea how to function as a team. The drive for revenge all the way around. Zemo had played them like chess. Played them right into a trap.

And they’d tumbled in like fools. Breaking everything that had been important.

Personally, he thought Stark was right; the Avengers weren’t for arms dealers. They weren’t for piddly terrorist groups and black market weapons dealers. They weren’t for the evils that humans could do against each other -- and humans were pretty damn capable of hurting each other. The Avengers were for things like Loki, things like aliens and mutants that could crack the planet in half like a dinner plate in a shooting gallery.

Zemo had wrecked them.

They were floundering now, trying to find a stable balance while the world still rocked underneath them.

And Steve was carrying that fulcrum point. No matter how much Stark might hate them now, for what they’d done, for what they were, for who they were and the lies they’d told and the blood on their hands. Stark knew that. He was doing his best.

But Steve couldn’t find center.

“Pool sounds great,” he said. Because Steve needed to relax, and he’d only do that, only had a chance of doing that, if someoone else led the way.

He ached to do it; he hadn’t been able to reach out, he didn’t want to touch Steve with his hands that had taken so much life, had destroyed so much. He’d killed Howard Stark, for fuck’s sake, the man who’d made all of this, all of them, possible. Hydra had stolen Erskine and Stark and so many others who’d helped Steve, kept him from dying, choking on his own blood, and he had helped Hydra and Zemo destroy that, against his will, but he’d done it nonetheless.

He hadn’t been able to reach out. Steve had been the one to touch, to clasp his shoulder, to put a hand over his, to stare with those longing blue eyes that just wanted to have his friend back.

In reality, it couldn’t have been more than five seconds that he hesitated. In his head, it was fifty years, a hundred, half a million years. He reached out, slung that metal arm over Steve’s shoulders and drew him in, the way he’d done for the whole of their lives as free men, tucked Steve up against his body as if he was still a ninety-eight pound weakling.

“Let’s go have some fun, Stevie,” he suggested.

Steve managed a trembling smile, and when he returned it, Steve’s smile grew even brighter until the whole area was lit with its radiance. “Yeah, ya jerk, let’s do that.”

 


	5. We Count Only Blue Cars

You're a diamond in the rough  
A brilliant ball of clay  
You could be a work of art  
If you just go all the way  
Now what would it take to break  
I believe that you can bend  
Not only do you have to fight  
But you have got to win  
\-- Kung Fu Fighting, Cee-Lo Green

 

Somewhere around Illinois, Steve was about ready to shove both his best friends out of the tiny car and make them walk a few miles. Buck and Sam _bickered_. It was never anything serious -- the merits of bacon over sausage as a breakfast protien. (bacon) Whether or not pineapple belonged on pizza. (no) Whether or not Natasha dyed her hair red or if it was naturally that color. (A gentleman didn’t speculate on a woman’s dress size, hair color, or age.)

And Steve couldn’t seem to help letting himself get drawn into their petty little disagreements. They didn’t agree on anything and it was driving Steve mad.

The argument of choice on that particular day started when Sam was reading out loud. They’d stopped at a book store two days ago and Sam had picked up a handful of things from random display tables. “Get an assortment,” Sam had said, “an’ we’ll see what we all wanna read more of, right?”

That day’s book, _Beautiful Creatures_ , was a teenage romance, which Steve was actually rather enjoying. He’d never read anything like it before, and Steve found the burgeoning love affair to be kinda cute.

And then Buck had pointed out a factual error in the book. “Jubal Early ain’t buried in South Carolina,” Buck said, crossing his arms over his massive chest and glaring into the front seat like Sam, the book, and the world in general had personally offended him about the location of some obscure Civil War general’s gravesite.

Sam actually turned around in the passenger seat to raise an eyebrow in Bucky’s direction. “I don’t see what that’s got t’ do with anything.”

“It’s _wrong_.”

“We’re readin’ a book about a teenage witch and a magic library, and you’re bitchin’ about historical accuracy?” Sam sighed, turned back around. He licked his finger (ug, gross) and attempted to pick up where he’d left off.

Buck reached around the seat, snatched the book out of his hand -- Steve had a brief flashback to the first time they’d met the Winter Soldier, who’d indulged in a little Jesus Take the Wheel moment (okay, that wasn’t Steve’s joke, but when the whole thing had been over and done, he could admit that Sam was kinda funny. A little bit.) -- and then tossed the book out the window.

Steve slammed on the brakes, sending all of them jolting forward.

“Bucky, what the hell?”

Buck shrugged, unconcerned. “The book was wrong.”

“It’s a made up book, not fifth grade flippin’ Civics class,” Sam protested.

Were they really doing this? Three grown men, squabbling like idiots, about a teenage romance novel?

A car behind them laid on the horn and Steve reluctantly pulled off to the side of the road. Yes, apparently they were going to squabble like idiots about a teenage romance novel, because Steve was deeply curious about what was going to happen. “Go get the book, Buck.”

Buck stared, like Steve had just asked him to throw a tank into a clock tower, or something.

“Stevie, it’s prob’ly three miles back at this point!” Buck protested.

“So you’d better get started.”

Even Sam was giving Steve the stink eye by that point. Steve shut the car down, tucked the keys in his pocket, and put his _No, You Move_ expression on. Of course he chose to do that with the two people least likely to take him seriously.

Buck stared a little longer; almost like watching a computer reboot. “Fine,” he huffed. He jerked the door open hard enough that Steve worried that he might rip it off. A few minutes later, he was out of sight, jogging along the side of the road.

“What th’ hell was that about?” Sam got out of the car to watch Buck run off. He leaned against the car near the driver’s side window and while Steve could hear him, Sam probably wouldn’t be able to hear Steve if he didn’t roll the window down. Steve got out of the car. The plastic handle crackled under his hand and Steve had to remember to loosen up his grip.

“Acceptable behavior,” Steve said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Your murder hobo is doing his best to fit back into a life with us, back at th’ Tower. But he’s still feral, Steve. I don’t think you’re goan be able to civilize him all the way.”

“That’s no reason not to try,” Steve said. Bucky -- his Bucky, not this wild creature that Buck had become -- would have wanted that. Wouldn’t he?

_He’s never going to be the man he was before._

_Well, neither am I._

Sam was just looking at him, expectantly.

“Is there some compulsion of yours that you not only have to be right, you want to hear people say it?” Steve growsed.

Sam chuckled, that gap between his teeth in evidence. “I live on it, Rogers,” he said. “Just want to make sure you’re not setting your sights too high. I don’t think I can live through broken-hearted Captain America for much longer.”

Steve sighed. “Why don’t you take the shield for a while, Sam? It’s getting a little heavy for me.” That was the truth, and nothing but. He’d been carrying the shield for so long, he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. Even when Tony had cast his last words at him -- you don’t deserve it -- Steve wasn’t sad to let it go. He was frankly relieved. It was a burden and a responsibility and Tony might even have been right. Steve didn’t deserve it; he didn’t deserve the honor, he didn’t deserve all the shit that came with it.

Maybe Tony could stand wearing a mask all the time, being a public persona that had nothing to do with the very human person underneath, but Steve was sick to death of it.

“I already got a superhero gig, Cap,” Sam said. “Got back into the game for you. Don’t want to be you.”

“Yeah, I’m not too eager to continue to be me, either,” Steve admitted. “Might be nice to just be Steve Rogers for a while.”

Buck came back up; somewhere in there he’d moved out of his jog, which was about as fast as a normal human’s flat out sprint, and he’d sped up until he was moving about as far as a car. He had the book in one hand and a scowl on his face.

“Here.” He shoved the book directly into the center of Steve’s chest. It wasn’t until Steve curled his fingers around it that he realized it was covered in mud. Steve took a deep breath. He already knew he couldn’t take Buck in a straight-up fight when the stakes mattered. And it was probably best not to tempt the Winter Soldier instincts to come out by punching Buck in the face.

But oh, god, Steve wanted to.

He opened his eyes. Buck was _smirking_.

An honest-to-god, wicked little grin. The sort he used to use when he was getting his flirt on with a pretty dame. The one he saved up, during the war, for special moments with his captain.

Any desire to punch Buck was overridden with the intense need to kiss him stupid. If Sam hadn’t been standing right there, Steve might have. There was a sparkle in Buck’s eyes that hadn’t been there before.

The one that said _I know you want me, you little shit._

***

He said, "Tell me all your thoughts on God  
And tell me am I very far?"  
Must have been late afternoon  
On our way the sun broke free of the clouds  
We count only blue cars, skip the cracks in the street  
And ask many questions like children often do  
\--Counting Blue Cars, Dishwalla

Trying to play road games with two super soldiers who had eyesight at ridiculous levels was harder than it looked. Sam was 20/20 -- that was a requirement for the Falcon program, same as being a jet pilot. Truth, Sam had gotten the lasik surgery a few years back, because age did its thing without a care for the state of superheros trying to save the world.

And he knew what the numbers meant; twenty was considered “ideally, what you can see at twenty feet clearly” and then the other number indicated what that actually was. So, for someone who was a little nearsighted, like Sam had been pre-surgery, he had to be 20 feet close to see something that ideally could have been seen at 30 feet. Sam had a buddy at the VA one time whose vision was 20/1000, which meant that guy had to be twenty feet away from something that most people could see at a thousand. Like _buildings_.

But Steve and Barnes had something 20/-100 vision, meaning they saw things before shit even _happened_. Through hills and trees and around freaking corners, man. So unfair.

Which meant the alphabet game went _fast_ , even after Sam outlawed license plates as an acceptable medium.

It also slowed their trip down some, as Sam absolutely demanded evidence. Barnes had called a V on a gas station that turned out to be two streets north of their current route, that he could barely glimpse reflected off the fucking bank building. Sam had to squint, and use a pair of binoculars that he insisted Steve buy from the local sporting goods shop before he’d believe that.

They’d tried moving on to I Spy, but Barnes refused to pick anything beyond “the back of y’all’s stupid heads, because that’s all I c’n see from here.”

Finally -- finally -- Sam hit on something that worked out. Both Steve and Barnes were unusually creative. Maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising, since they were both tactical specialists practically before Sam’s gramma was born, but Sam found himself surprised by the degree of thinking outside the box the two of them were capable of.

“Fortunately…” Sam said, thinking, “this’ll be the first time I’ve seen the Grand Canyon.”

“Unfortunately, it’s been invaded by aliens,” Steve said.

“What are you doin’, man, projecting?”

“It’s the way the world is, these days,” Steve responded with a shrug.

“Well, fortunately, I got experience shootin’ aliens,” Barnes took his turn. The scary thing is, that was probably true.

“Well, unfortunately,” Sam said, rolling his eyes expressively, “you didn’t pack your guns.”

“Fortunately,” Steve said, “I have Stark on speed dial, and he can just drone us in some.”

“Unfortunately, Stark don’t like you anymore, Stevie,” Barnes piped up.

“Fortunately, SHIELD managed to haul its head out of its collective ass and can give us some backup,” Sam said on his turn.

“Unfortunately, they’re still bound by the Slokovia accords, and I’m not sure we’ll get an acceptable use of force before the aliens have burned down most of the midwest.” That was sarcastic enough to qualify for a license to kill.

“Ow, Steve,” Sam said, pressing his hand to his chest. “That’s painful, man.”

“Fortunately, no one interesting lives in the midwest,” Barnes said, leaning back and linking his hands behind his neck. “So, it ain’t like we’re losing anything important.”

“Unfortunately, SHIELD’s current secure facility for storing weapons of unspeakable power is in Nebraska, so the aliens are actually after that, which is why they’re in the midwest to start with,” Sam said.

“Fortunately, the aliens are also looking for a good time, so we’ll just drop Sam off and everything’ll be fine.”

Barnes scoffed from the backseat. “Unfortunately,” he said, pointedly, “the aliens have good taste, and so Wilson isn’t on their list.”

“Oh, now you’re just gettin’ nasty,” Sam said. “Fortunately, we’ve got pretty-boy, all American grade A beef riding with us, so if my pretty face doesn’t do it for ‘em, Cap can take his shirt off. That’ll get anyone to stop an’ stare.”

“Are we still playing a game, or flirting like emotionally damaged fourth graders?” Steve wondered.

Barnes scowled. “Unfortunately, Steve’s already got a stick up his ass, so they’re not going to be able to do any probing work.”

“One, it’s not your turn,” Steve said, faintly horrified “and two, I fail to see how that’s _unfortunate_ , Buck, really.”

“That’s ‘cause you ain’t gotta deal with the stick,” Barnes muttered, slumping back in his seat.

“When was the last time we ate anything?” Steve asked.

Sam had to think about it. “Um, maybe three hours ago?”

“We’re going to get ice cream,” Steve said, decisively. “You two are acting like cranky toddlers and I’m fed up with both of you.”

“Heh,” Barnes said. “Tell ya what, jerk. You sit in th’ back for a while an’ let one of us drive. See how cranky you get.”

“Flip you for it,” Sam challenged.

“I’m drivin,” Barnes said. “Or I will flip you, an’ I ain’t talkin’ about a coin toss.”

Sam could feel his sap rising, the part of himself that followed Cap into battle without a care for what they were doing. The kind of thing that kept him going with the Avengers. The part of himself that wanted to kick ass and chew bubblegum, and he’d left bubblegum behind a long time ago.

And then Steve’s hand came down on Sam’s knee. “Just… just let him drive this time, okay?”

Steve’s hand was on Sam’s knee. Not a pat on the shoulder or the occasional arm slung around Sam’s shoulder that he was used to. That was… flirting.

Cap was absolutely to blame for all of Sam’s poor life choices. But Steve _flirting_ with him? That was a whole new realm of disastrous decision-making.

“Okay,” Sam said. He wondered if Steve would take it at all amiss if Sam put his hand over Steve’s.

***

Tomorrow we can drive around this town  
And let the cops chase us around  
The past is gone but something might be found  
To take its place... Hey jealousy  
And you can trust me not to think  
And not to sleep around  
If you don't expect too much from me  
You might not be let down  
\-- _Hey Jealousy_ , Gin Blossoms

There was no possible way Wilson wasn’t doing that on purpose.

Wilson was fucking _fellating_ that damn ice cream cone. He’d gotten vanilla, claiming that it was his favorite flavor and he was doing obscene goddamn things to it.

That could not be accidental.

Which meant he was trying to make a move on Steve.

Wilson was turned halfway in the passenger seat, talking with Steve and making love with that goddamn dessert.

Wilson stuck that pink tongue of his all the way out and slowly turned the cone in his hand, smoothing out the sides. Then he deep-throated it, hollowing in his cheeks and pulling back, letting the very top of the ice cream curl up and stretch a bit. He licked the top. Dripped some ice cream down the back of his hand and took his time licking the creamy residue off his skin.

He didn’t really need to keep his eyes on the road; he was a goddamn supersoldier and his reactions were damn fast; he barely flicked his gaze to the road ahead before watching Steve in the rearview mirror.

Hard to tell, with Steve, sometimes. Did he even notice that people were flirting with him? Back during the War, he hadn’t quite mastered the art. He turned red and spluttered whenever Carter had been around, and while he hadn’t been adverse to a little messing around in dark corners, Steve had never quite made a confession.

That had been a hard shadow living in, watching Steve fall in love with Carter.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to do it a second time.

“Hey Sam.” Steve leaned forward, blue eyes intent and just a tiny bit amused. “You’ve… uh, got ice cream…” He ran his finger down the side of his mouth.

_Ug. Steve. That is absolutely not an accident!_

Sam had some sort of mystical sixth sense; he knew exactly where the ice cream smutz was, like a glistening pearl on his chin. Because he wiped his entire chin and it was still fucking there.

_That’s a trap, Steve._

Steve licked his thumb and reached out.

_Oh hell no._

Flick. He checked the road ahead.

Flick. He checked the following distance of the car behind them.

Slammed on the brakes.

Wilson and Steve, who were too busy paying attention to each other, like this was some sort of fucking blind date, jerked forward.

He’d timed it just right; Wilson’s ice cream was all over his chin, his throat, and down the front of his previously immaculate polo.

Hit the accelerator just as Wilson was dabbing at his shirt, which smeared more of the remains of his dessert on his hands and into his lap.

_Score._

“Wh--”

“Buck, what the hell?”

“Road debris,” he said, gesturing with one hand toward the road behind them. “Wasn’t sure what it was.”

The look Wilson threw at him was utter and complete loathing. Wilson knew, knew for certain, that there was no road debris. Knew that he’d absolutely been flirt-blocked.

He’d have done a victory fist pump if he didn’t think Steve would be upset if Wilson threw an actual punch. There was no way that Wilson could actually cause an injury to anyone but himself, but it would upset Steve.

“You are a dick, Barnes,” Wilson said. He dug around in the glove box and found some napkins.

He was still debating internally if it would be more annoying and smug-ass of him to deny everything, or admit anything, when Steve put a hand on the back of his neck.

Warm, fingers gentle and comforting, the touch was everything that he’d been missing for _decades_. Better than a simple clap on the shoulder with a half-dozen layers between himself and Steve’s skin.

Every nerve in his body concentrated on that one patch of skin where Steve’s fingers rested.

He inhaled, barely audible, or it should have been with the engine purring and the road noise and Wilson’s continued rant about the size, shape, and pustulant growths…

Flick.

He glanced up in the rearview and caught Steve’s gaze. Steve’s blue eyes were soft, the pupils wide with sudden feeling.

Smiling, he turned back to the road.

Just in time to swerve around a piece of _actual_ road debris.

“Fuck!”

The car shimmied ungracefully from one side of the lane to the other. A soft, but distinct sound, like a bullet moving through a silencer.

_Thup. thup. thup._

He took a deep breath, let it out. Brought the car to an ungainly stop on the side of the road. “We’ve got a flat,” he said. “Hope there’s a spare.”

“What was that?”

“Road debris.”

“Really, Barnes? _Really_?”

Wilson got the full force of his puppy-eyed pout. Steve had frequently been susceptible. Dames had always melted under it.

Wilson squinched his mouth up to the side, tipped his head, and looked disgusted. “You. Are a dick.”

 


	6. Reignite Your Memory

Hey, wake up, your eyes weren't open wide  
For the last couple of miles you've been swerving from side to side  
You're gonna make me spill my beer,  
If you don't learn how to steer  
Passenger side, passenger side,  
I don't like riding on the passenger side  
\-- _Passenger Side_ , Wilco

“Okay, so we have a spare,” Sam said, in that voice. Steve was getting ridiculously familiar with _that_ voice. The one that vaguely reminded him of his mother, dead so very long ago. She’d had that same sort of fond, hands on her hips, look what this idiot has done, tone.

“I’m sensing a but, here,” Steve said. He set out the road flares.

“You’ve got one following you around,” Sam said. He leaned against the open trunk and gave Steve a long look, raking him up and down. “I mean, you could be one of those rap guys' girlfriends.”

“What?” Steve crinkled up his forehead.

“He means your ass is _huge_ , Stevie,” Buck piped up. He was still poking around in the trunk and through their gear that they’d unloaded, as if extra looking would make a miracle happen.

“Nice, though,” Sam pointed out. “If you like that kinda ass. If that was the sort of ass you’d want to tap--”

Buck grabbed a crowbar out of the trunk and waved it threateningly in Sam’s direction, then scoffed, disgusted. “It’s a rap song, Stevie. Jesus Christ, you been awake like five years, ain’t you paid attention t’ nothin’?”

“Been a little busy saving the world, Buck,” Steve said, crossing his arms over his chest. He manfully resisted the urge to lean against the car as well so that Sam couldn’t see the ass he was commenting about. Steve wasn’t quite sure what was going on there; Sam had never flirted with Steve before. He had to assume, therefore, that Sam was doing it just to get under Buck’s skin.

Buck rubbed at the side of his face with his middle finger. “Too busy t’ listen t’ music? Too busy t’ read any books? Stevie, you ain’t livin’, you’re just survivin’.”

He was still working on a response to that with more class than “fuck you, too, pal” when Sam added, “He ain’t lyin’, Steve. You had a whole list of stuff you wanted to try, when we met. You ever make it through that list? You ever figure out what makes you happy?”

“Before we start on a general critique of my life, you think you can tell me what’s distressing about the tire?”

“No jack,” Buck said, succinctly. “Not a problem, really.”

Sam stopped giving Steve the “I’m waiting” look to flatly stare at Bucky. “What’s not a problem?”

“Car only weighs in ‘bout four thousand pounds,” Buck said, reasonably. “An’ you got two supersoldiers, s’long as you know how to change a damn tire--” Buck raised an eyebrow as if he wouldn’t be shocked to discover that Sam was, indeed, lacking in that skill “--we can hold up th’ car for a bit. Jus’ make sure you put on th’ parking brake.”

“You’re going to hold. Up. The. Car?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you pick up a car, Steve?” Sam asked, incredulous.

“Can? Yeah, I think so,” Steve said. He hadn’t ever exactly checked. There had been a whole list of tests that Erskine wanted to perform on him, after Project Rebirth went through; Steve had gotten a look at the list, and with a little concentration, even now, he could bring those things to mind. Some of them had been repetitions of tests that he’d done before they’d injected him, so there could be a direct comparison. How much did he weigh, how much could he deadlift. How long could he hold his breath? How far could he throw a five pound object?

There’d been other things, under Erksine’s heading of For Science that Steve wasn’t too sure of, either. Average sperm count. Refractory time. Performance issues? Steve rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure there weren’t a group of scientists in a basement somewhere who still jerked it to his file. There’d been some photographs taken for that line of questioning, too. Steve wondered if Stark would be interested in helping him get those files back so Steve could burn them, or if Stark already had them. Steve’s mouth twitched a little.

“More a matter of getting th’ proper leverage,” Buck was saying when Steve tuned back into the conversation. “Ain’t like a car’s made t’ be picked up by the door--”

“--or the steering wheel,” Sam interrupted.

“If I said I’s sorry ‘bout that, would you let it die?” Bucky demanded.

“Ain’t likely,” Sam responded.

“Good. Because I ain’t sorry,” Bucky said, his mouth turning up at the corner, just a little. “But yeah, if Stevie an’ I can get a good grip, we can lift the car, no problem.”

“Yeah,” Steve added in, “When Bucky says don’t make him turn this car around, he means it.”

“You can _pick up a car_?” Sam turned that question on Bucky, this time. Repeating it, like he didn’t believe them. “Like, the whole car?”

“You wanna show him, pal, or should I?” Steve asked.

Buck sighed. He dropped to the ground, slithered under the car, and with a grunt, pushed the car up. He was balancing it, feet on the undercarriage, hands spread wide to hold the weight. “This ain’t the best position t’ lift for a tire, change, but yeah, I can lift the whole fuckin’ car.”

“How is that even possible?” Sam demanded. “I mean, fuck the muscles, man, you both got muscles, but how do your bones take that kind of stress.”

“Very well, thank you,” Steve said. “Put the car down and stop showing off.”

“Pick the car up, Bucky,” Buck said. “Put the car down, Bucky. Sheesh.”

“That should not even be possible,” Sam said.

Steve shrugged. He wasn’t the science guy; even though he’d had a pretty good brain before Erskine had started his experiments -- his dismal grades in school had reflected his many illnesses rather than his intelligence -- and afterward, he’d gotten a memory like a steel trap and the ability to see and analyze patterns, but he still didn’t understand Erskine’s thought patterns that had made Project Rebirth a success. He only knew what he could do, and half the time he didn’t even know that until he tried it.

He rather suspected Buck had been thoroughly tested. That his abilities were as well known to him as they had been to Hydra. He didn’t ask about that.

There were a lot of things that happened to Buck under Hydra’s control that Steve didn’t want to ask about. He was pretty sure those things would scar his soul.

_It’s enough. We got him back._

He hadn’t said a word, but Buck seemed to have also developed some sort of ability to read Steve’s mind. Or maybe it was a gift, from having known each other so long. Buck put the car back on the ground, clawed his way out from under it, and patted Steve on the shoulder. “I’m okay, pal,” Buck said.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve responded, blowing out a breath. “Where do you want me to stand while we change this tire?”

Buck showed him where the jack-grooves were. “Lift there. An’ don’t pull too hard, or the a-frame’ll come right out an’ then we’ll be in trouble.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Steve said, mildly.

“Get ready t’ change the tire, fast as you can.”

Sam loosened the bolts and on a count of three, Steve and Buck lifted the car about a foot and a half to let Sam work on it.

The car wasn’t heavy. Not the way Steve had thought about heavy, back in the day when he weighed about ninety pounds with his clothes on, but it had also been a long, long time since Steve had felt anything heavy, or anything like muscle-strain.

The car was… just awkward. Holding it at a precision height, knees bent in a half-squat, fingers with the pads flat against the metal because he didn’t want to dig his nails into the material and rip it free. And knowing he probably could do those things, if he wanted to.

Had he ever, really, cut loose? Analyzed what he could do, just to see, and not because lives would be lost if he didn’t actually manage to jump across the factory floor while it was on fire?

“Don’t get any bright ideas, pal,” Bucky said. “I ain’t fixin’ to go fetch this piece o’ shit if you throw it halfway down the road, there.”

***

It's an itch we know we are gonna scratch  
Gonna take a while for this egg to hatch  
But wouldn't it be beautiful  
Here we are, we're at the beginning  
We haven't fucked yet, but my heads spinning  
Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you  
Why can't I speak whenever I talk about you  
It's inevitable, it's a fact that we're gonna get down to it  
So tell me  
Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you  
\-- _Why Can’t I_ , Liz Phair

Supersoldiers were fucking show offs, Sam thought, resentment burning just a little in the back of his brain.

Wasn’t it bad enough that they were both drop-over gorgeous? Brilliant in combat, expert tacticians. Barnes was a marksman, beyond what any training should have compensated for. Sam had seen him take a shot without even looking, using his ears like some sort of sonar, triangulation shit, and how was that even fair?

And then there was the shared hivemind thing they had going on. Sam wondered if they even noticed that they were going it; sentences flowed from one of them to the other, even if Barnes was only commenting or agreeing with the subtle tips of his expression.

Sam was starting to feel seriously outclassed.

At least neither of the fuckers could fly.

Of course, neither could Sam, at the moment. His pack was still back at the Avenger’s Compound, waiting to the Accords celebration, waiting for a signature to say that everything Sam did for the rest of his life was going to be under the jurisdiction of most of the world.

He still wasn’t sure it was a good plan; in fact, Sam would be willing to say it was a pretty bad damn decision.

First off, as someone whose great-greats had come over to the Americas, collared and registered on a document as property, he didn’t have what you’d call happy, shiny feelings about being on any damn sort of _registry_ , super-hero or otherwise.

Second, while Sam didn’t have any direct evidence that General Ross was under Hydra control, the man was absolutely not to be trusted. The number of human rights violations in the Sokovia Accords were staggering; and Ross just happened to have access to an enormous, submersible prison that no one knew about, right up until he threw half the Avengers into it without due process? Yeah, that wasn’t suspicious _at all_.

Sam continued to brood about the Accords while he worked the hubcap off the tire, listing all his arguments and reasons; much more articulate in his head than he ever managed to be in person, but one of the things Stark had done -- and Sam would probably rather cut his own tongue out than admit that he was relieved about it -- was get a whole team of lawyers on it. Just because the Accords were a global initiative didn’t mean that the United States Constitution didn’t apply. Just because it was convenient didn’t make it law.

He was going to lose his fucking mind when Steve reached out and grabbed the tire with one hand, working the torque backward against the crowbar when Sam was having a little trouble getting one of the bolts loose. Sam had to restrain himself from smacking Captain fucking America with a crowbar, because really? Really, Sam could change a goddamn tire on his own, without any--

Holy hell, how the fuck? Even?

Steve’s bicep bulged attractively.

“It was rusty,” Sam explained, like normal guys never had trouble with pickle jars and wrenches. But he got the flat off, and the spare on, and then Steve dropped the car. Sam jumped back, the crowbar clattering against the pavement and bouncing under the car.

There was a terrible shrieking sound of metal on metal, a tearing, grinding noise that set Sam’s teeth on edge and his eardrums on fire.

“Christ, Stevie, warn a guy,” Barnes said, holding up the rear bumper, that he apparently accidentally torn off. He folded the bumper up -- at least the older car was mostly made of metal instead of that fiberglass and plastic compound with built in crumple zones -- and tossed it off the side of the road like it was an empty fast-food cup.  

Sam stopped running his brain on that particular hamster track when Barnes used the collar of his tee to wipe sweat off his throat, the hem of his shirt riding up, showing off ridiculous abs and the dip in his hips… _Jesus, Sam. Get a grip._

“You’ve got --” Steve pointed, and he was just making shit worse, because Barnes yanked his tee all the way up to scrub his face on it, showcasing that chest and lower back, and Sam really needed to not fall in lust with the unobtainables. There was a little somethin’-somethin’ going on with Steve and Barnes, and Sam was trying to stay out of the middle of it. That way lay heartbreak and possibly losing the best friend he’d had since Riley died.

But he wasn’t blind, and he couldn’t help but look.

_Fuck._

“You best be havin’ an idea about what we’re going to do if now that you tossed our bumper,” Sam said, folding his arms over his chest.

Barnes raised an eyebrow. “Stealing a better car comes to mind.”

***

Let the heat of the sun  
Reignite your memory  
'Cause if we just turn and run  
Let them fire the gun  
No I don't know why seasons change  
Or how we fell so far  
Before our hearts go up in flames  
Let's go throwing stones  
And stealing cars  
\-- _Stealing Cars_ , James Bay

“Relax, Stevie,” he said. He laid his tools out on the cheap hotel room table. “I ain’t takin’ someone else’s money. This is Hydra cash, I’m just accessin’ it.” He reinforced the credit card with a few pieces of packing tape across the front.

“That’s someone else’s credit card, Buck,” Steve pointed out.

Idiot; like he didn’t know that, he was the one who lifted it from the tourist family who was checking in before them. He held up one shiny metal finger. “Ain’t attached to their account anymore, I jus’ need somethin’ to swipe.” He slid the magnet over the card a few times, degaussing the strip. “You got that number for me, Wilson?”

“I don’t even wanna know why this stuff’s public information,” Wilson commented, handing over the notepad where he’d written the codes.

The night clerk probably wouldn’t miss the strip-encoder that they’d liberated from behind the desk; not until check out, at least. There were a few of them, for high turnover time at the hotel, but it was unlikely that all three would be required at once, and the device was portable. Chances were good the clerks wouldn’t even notice it was missing at all. And he’d put it back, the next day.

He entered the new credit information onto the strip-encoder and then ran the hotel card key over it, imprinting it with the account; an old Hydra slush fund for high level executives. That one was one of Pierce’s old funds, where he slid extra campaign money and used for various bribes -- as well as some of his little luxuries -- that he’d managed to retain after Insight. Only Pierce and a handful of his top agents had known about the account at all, so he wasn’t worried about being tracked down by accessing the funds.

Painting down the old stripe with clear fingernail polish kept any residual information from seeping through the card-reader and a few slices with a razor and he transferred the magnetic strip from their hotel card-key onto the back of the credit card. He pressed, using the sealant of the polish to hold the new strip in place

He took the finished product and heated it in the microwave for a moment to bond the tape and polish together.

“Shiny new credit card,” he said, handing it off to Steve. “With almost as much funding as a Stark account. Now… go buy us a new car, hmm?”

“What about getting our old car fixed?” Steve crossed his massive arms over his massive chest and looked massively disapproving.

“Consider it backpay for puttin’ Insight outta commission, if ya gotta, Stevie,” he said. “Th’ money’s there, ya might as well use it. Ain’t nobody with better intentions gonna have access to it.”

“And we’ve already pissed off our regular mechanic,” Wilson piped up. He’d been fascinated by the whole process, that gap-toothed smile sneaking out when he thought no one was looking.

Steve flicked an angry look in Sam’s direction. “I’m not asking Tony for help.”

“Which is why you’re gonna use Hydra funds t’ get us a new car,” he said.

“If you hadn’t ripped the bumper off our old car--”

He turned Steve in the direction of the door. “Car.”

Wilson waited a bit longer than strictly necessary before turning to him. “You’re smooth,” Wilson admitted. “Tell me, didja rip th’ muffler off on purpose?”

He was getting practice with the whole rolling-the-eyes thing. “This was a dumb damn idea t’ start with,” he said. “Can’t believe you said yes t’ a six week long road quest with Captain America.”

Wilson’s arms were less awe-inspiring than Steve’s, but he’d mastered the unimpressed look. “I’m not the only one who coulda put a kibosh on this.”

“You think I ever had any influence over what Steve does?” He shook his head. “Not even when he was so tiny I could sling ‘im over my shoulder an’ cart him away. Steve always was a stubborn cuss.”

One of Wilson’s eyebrows achieved altitude and the side of his mouth twisted. “What’s your plan, soldier?”

“Thought Steve was the man with a plan?”

“You calculatin’,” Wilson accused. “Ever’thing about this op’s been on your dime, since the words left Steve’s mouth.”

He gave Wilson a quick nod, respectful. “You’re a sharp one.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Wilson agreed. “Except around a direct question. What are you up to?”

“You know what happens to a pocketwatch, when gets overwound?”

Wilson puffed out his cheeks and made a soft explosion noise.

“Thing is, you can’t tell. Steve’s… man, Steve’s runnin’ on empty,” he said. “Man’s been done, years now. An’ they keep callin’ him back. An’ he can’t help but go. If Stark asked him t’ stay, he would’ve. What happened in Siberia, that shouldn’t have happened. The Steve I knew, he wouldn’t never have done that. He’s broken already. Ain’t that I’m tryin’ to keep him from breakin’. He’s already done that.”

Wilson nodded, reluctantly. “So, what’s this?”

“Little bit of peace,” he said. “Him, you, me, open road.”

There went the dubious eyebrows again. “You and I ain’t never gonna be a little bit of peace, hoss.”

He chuckled, letting his wry amusement show. “Little problems,” he said. “Little solutions. Somethin’ he can do, an’ fix. Be annoyed with me. He’ll sleep better. Hell, sleep at all. You’ll see.”

Wilson was nodding slowly. “When I first met him, I asked him what made him happy. Said he didn’t know.” Wilson shot him a long, knowing look. “That’d be a different answer now, wouldn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. There’s a lot of road between us an’ that bridge we burned down. Leastways, I aim to see if it grows again.”

“I… I won’t get in the way of that,” Wilson said.

He shook his head. “You can’t. Not between us. There’s more there than either of us can ever put aside. But Steve’s got a big heart, Wilson. More’n I can fill. Don’t… I ain’t possessive. I ain’t gonna warn you off. If--” he trailed off, not sure how to express it. Steve… Steve needed to be needed. And he… both did and did not _need_ Steve.

“What?”

“My comin’ back messed things up for him. He was gettin’ over me. Maybe not so easy. An’ this… well, this is just a grade A clusterfuck, ain’t it? What I’m sayin’ is, this didn’t have to mess things up for you.”

Those were more words than he’d used in a long time, and he was done. He started cleaning up the scraps and tape and polish from building up the false credit card. Steve should be back soon, and this conversation… was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me; August was like the Worst Month Ever as far as getting writing done, so I know I'm a little behind... but look... Bucky at least is Done With Pining and is trying to move things along :D
> 
> PS -- the stuff about the credit card magnetizing is from some research I did for a novel about thieves a few years back. Also, Bucky's tapping off a Hydra Account, not like stealing someone's personal information. I do not know if it's accurate or if it works, but Do Not Try This At Home!

**Author's Note:**

> This author would like to be very clear:
> 
> I have no idea how often I'll post this. I don't have a set schedule. It's going to go up as it goes up.  
> Song lyrics are used without permission and credited to their performers. Road trip music is a must.


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